


Falling Down

by gimmefire



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Obsession, Psychological Trauma, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-26
Updated: 2008-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tensions between Fernando and Felipe have risen since their incident at the 2007 European Grand Prix, and when Fernando signs for Ferrari for the 2008 season, it leaves Felipe without a seat. But what are his true motives for the move?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Busy Mending Broken Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Heroically beta'd by [](http://tasyfa.livejournal.com/profile)[tasyfa](http://tasyfa.livejournal.com/).

_January 7th, 2008. Felipe's POV._

Felipe stumbled into his hotel room, his own furious, hoarse shouts still ringing in his ears.

_Forza Ferrari? Forza niente! I was nothing but loyal, to you I have_ always _been loyal – I could have taken that win at Interlagos, you, me, Kimi and everybody knows it. It would have been_ easy _for me. I did what I did for the team, for_ you _, I did it off my own back and this is my payment? No, you take him and see what you get. Did you know how badly he wanted that McLaren seat, how much he'd dreamed of it? He fucked it up because he couldn't put his ego aside – how do you think he will treat you? You want that 'world owes me' shit? You have it, take it. Don't ever expect me back now that I know what loyalty is to you. Vaffanculo!_

There had been more, much more than that – a two hour meeting had consisted of one hour of talk and one hour of raised voices and vicious insults being flung to the point where Jean and Nicolas had held up their hands, tried to calm him. The words, the oaths and rage that had poured from his mouth in a torrent were careless, driven by high emotion – he may even regret some of them in a few days' time. After all, drivers were supposed to conduct themselves better than he just had.

But how, how in God's name was he supposed to conduct himself with anything but outrage when, to pour salt right into that stab wound in his back, _he_ had been there. _Him_ , the reason for all this, sat there at the table obviously at the behest of Jean and not of his own volition, because the few times Felipe deigned him with a glance he appeared to be trying to shrink into himself and disappear.

Felipe wished he would.

He was wryly glad that "El Nano" wasn't already decked out in a Ferrari shirt, or else he might've done something really stupid.

So here he was, leaning heavily against the wall of his hotel room, the shock fading, reality sinking in.

_No team, no manager. No available seats. No backup plan. No hope for a 2008 season._

He felt as though all the blood had drained out if him, and here he sagged, shaking, sweating, pale.

_Abandoned. Dumped. Dropped. Fucking betrayed._

His throat started to tighten, stomach churning, and he barely managed to collapse at the toilet bowl before throwing up.

He remained there until he was merely dry heaving and his head had stopped spinning so terribly. He slumped back onto his haunches with a thud and sagged against the wall like a wet towel, eyes glazed, breath rattling from him. With all the sluggishness of a drunk, his fingers curled around the bottom of his Ferrari shirt and peeled it off, grimacing a little when his eyes caught a flash of the prancing horse logo. He didn't want the accursed thing on him, not anywhere near him, and all he would reserve for that shirt was use as a towel, wiping his mouth clean before throwing it aside.

_What am I supposed to do?_ Little thought passed through his mind as he dragged himself to his feet, flushing the toilet and filling a glass with water, but that question kept popping up as much as he tried to push it away. _What the hell am I supposed to do?_ Again there it was, while he swilled the water around his mouth and spat it into the basin, once, twice.

Felipe did not have an answer. And it terrified him. The white porcelain before him offered him nothing, nothing at all, so he drank the remainder of the water, set the glass down and shuffled away, back to the bedroom. The nausea had faded, not quite into nothing but enough to just let it sit there in his empty stomach and dully throbbing head, so he settled on the corner of his bed.

This was the part he was truly afraid of, sitting there, just sitting there on the end of the bed and not having the adequate presence of mind to do anything but. Staring down at his hands, this was when it could all finally sink in, and hearing nothing at all but his own hoarse breathing, this, finally, was when he lost it.

His vision blurred, he heard himself choke, and as he pushed his hands into his hair he hunched over and sobbed his heart out.

 

It was around half an hour before silence had fallen in Felipe's room. He had pushed himself up the bed, body leaden and utterly, utterly wrung out, and propped himself up against the headboard, dividing his thoughts between the progress of the rivulets of water occasionally tracking down the window to his right and nothing at all, if he could help it. He wanted another glass of water but didn't want to have to go and get it. He wanted a solution to his 'unfortunate situation', as Jean had almost laughably put it, to drop into his lap. Perhaps in the way of a phone call from one of the other teams with a lucrative contract and the promise of a formidable car. Perhaps for his ex-team to knock on the door, present him with a sizeable cake and to tell him that it was all an elaborate prank. Perhaps...

When he failed to think of anything else that could fix it all, he did his best to stop thinking altogether. And it sort of worked – until there was a knock at his door. For a moment he actually wondered if Jean and Nicolas might be at the door with that big slab of Madeira and icing, all smiles.

Swiftly he shook himself out of that thought, that distant hope, scrubbing his hands over his face. He felt like hell; almost certainly looked like it, and he wasn't sure if he wanted anyone else to see him, whoever it might be at the door. Who could it be, though?

_The press can't know about this already, can they?_

That thought briefly caused a fresh wave of nausea to rise in him, and he twisted his hand into the bedcovers beneath him as he silently chastised himself for such paranoia. Paparazzi couldn't just wander into the hotel, and precious few knew that he was even in the country – the meeting had been booked at short notice. _Probably should have heard alarm bells from that,_ he thought bitterly.

Finally, when another knock sounded, Felipe pulled himself up and shuffled towards the door with the intention of looking through the peephole before jumping to any more conclusions. He was around five steps away when a voice came from the other side of the door.

That unmistakeable fucking Spanish accent.

"Felipe? Are you there?"

Felipe froze in his tracks. His blank expression transformed, and all that rage that he'd thought was spent before his team suddenly came rushing back to the surface.


	2. Dark Shines Bringing Me Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I_ dislike _you," he said, slowly and carefully, making sure Fernando heard and understood that central word with crystal clarity._

_Fernando's POV._  
  
Fernando backpedalled from the door as something crashed against it, making it rattle loudly. He guessed that Felipe had thrown something sizeable at it; when the diminutive Brazilian could be heard bellowing on the other side, the volume of it led Fernando to conclude that he had thrown himself bodily against the door and probably now was pressed tight against it, shaking with rage as he swore in his native tongue. Fernando began to wonder whether he should've listened to Nicolas and stayed well clear of the fiery Felipe for a while.  
  
He'd never seen him that angry before. Yeah, there was the incident at the Nürburgring where barbed words had been flung and Felipe had visibly seethed on the podium, but this...this was as if a bomb had gone off in the young man.  
  
"What the hell makes you think I would choose ever to speak to you again?!" Felipe's words – his first not in his native tongue for a good few minutes – brought the Spaniard out of introspection.   
  
He exhaled through his nose and leaned closer to the door. "If you would just let me explain..."  
  
One might have thought of Fernando's voice as emerging rather small; compared to Felipe's shouts he sounded positively timid. Another thud, smaller this time, probably Felipe's fist.  
  
" _Fudido_ , explain?! What is there that you can explain that wasn't made perfectly clear in that meeting?"  
  
Fernando glanced down the hall. There was a cleaning lady five or so doors away, and no doubt Felipe was loud enough for her to hear. He pulled his cap a little lower over his eyes and turned his back to her, face heating up a little. This was close to getting publicly out of hand, what with the occasional hotel guest passing by. The tabloids wouldn't need any more fodder after the events from earlier got out.  
  
"Felipe, would you just let me in?" he muttered against the door jamb.  
  
Oddly, silence greeted him. No shrieks, no rattling door, and Fernando felt a flicker of worry that the Brazilian might have passed out from the stress. He licked his lips. _Shit._ He listened against the door. "Hey, Massa?"  
  
Still nothing.  
  
"Felipinho?"  
  
Perhaps Felipe's seldom-used nickname was some sort of password, some ‘open sesame' command. All of a sudden the door swung open and there was Felipe, shirtless and in those low slung jeans and little else, slightly red faced, breathless and wide eyed. Those dark eyes, a little puffy, showed no simple surprise, though – they radiated incredulous outrage, twice the amount Fernando had seen there at the meeting. The Spaniard readjusted his cap, doing his level best not to balk at the admittedly intimidating gaze, hoping his own caramel eyes might give him sufficient power against...well, against whatever Felipe was about to do to him, because the young man sure as hell wasn't making any move to let him pass.  
  
Neither of them said a word.  
  
Suddenly Felipe lurched forward, teeth bared, and threw all the force of that lurch into his balled fist, whole body swinging with the motion of it. Fernando pre-empted the punch by milliseconds and feinted to his left. The punch subsequently landed only as a glancing blow and not the knockout right hook it was obviously intended to be, but the taller man still caught enough of it for him to see stars and stagger back against the corridor's far wall with an ‘oof'. Once his vision cleared, Felipe stood before him, too close for comfort, almost physically bristling and seeming at that moment much more than his five feet and four inches. A beat, and a rather manic, wry, twisted little smirk wrenched at Felipe's lips, but there was far too much going on in his eyes for it to be called amused or pleased.  
  
"I _dislike_ you," he said, slowly and carefully, making sure Fernando heard and understood that central word with crystal clarity. Then he turned on his heel and stalked back into his room, slamming the door behind him.  
  
At least, that had been his intention; Fernando had pushed himself up fast enough when the Brazilian turned that he'd managed to catch the door before it could close. He followed Felipe in, wisely not making a sound.  
  
What struck Fernando first as he entered the other man's room was the acrid stench of vomit tracing the air. Not strong enough to make him gag, but enough for him to be uncomfortably aware that Felipe had thrown up somewhere in there. It was utterly confirmed as he passed the bathroom; the Ferrari shirt Felipe had shed lay in there, crumpled and stained, by the toilet.  
  
Guilt washed over Fernando for a moment at the sight. Perhaps this was all going too far. Perhaps this had _already_ gone too far. He turned his gaze to Felipe's turned back, to his reflection in the mirror opposite as he rubbed at his forehead and stared at the carpet, fury crumbling away. The Spaniard glanced back to the door, then back to Felipe. To the thoroughly broken looking man, almost a shadow of the driver he had seen, _really_ seen, for the first time at the German grand prix earlier that year. The thought struck him then that none of this would have happened – or at the very least, not in quite this manner – without that infamous little wheel shunt at the Nürburgring.  
  
  
Before the European grand prix, Fernando Alonso had barely given a second thought to Felipe Massa. The Brazilian had joined the grid a year after him, had ascended the ranks in a much quieter fashion than him until he suddenly had a seat at Ferrari. Occasionally they battled on the track, but they never said more than two words to one another off it. In fact, Fernando had gotten the impression that Felipe didn't really like him. At the time the Spaniard had quietly sneered that Felipe was so in love with his then teammate that to see someone beating his mighty Schumi-wumi a little too often was like a personal insult. Yeah, he and Fisi had had a good laugh about that.  
  
That was as far as his mind ever went, though; Felipe was usually just there and of no real concern to him. They had celebrated, side by side with wide grins, absolutely bursting with happiness and mutual congratulations, in Brazil.  
  
But then came the new season. The Nürburgring and _that_ contact.  
  
Fernando didn't know if Felipe had done it on purpose, whether from a ruthless, instinctive split second decision or blind anger at being overtaken so late in the race. By now it didn't matter; what mattered was that at the time Fernando believed Felipe had intentionally driven into him and Felipe had been rubbed the wrong way at the mere suggestion of it. Fernando himself had been pissed off at the contact, but it had been the first time he'd seen Felipe angry. The look on the other driver's face when Fernando had spoken of his broken sidepod...he'd just _changed_.  
  
Initially confusion had flitted over his face – perhaps trying to work out if he'd heard what he thought he'd heard in a language that wasn't his own, or maybe the words had really taken him aback that much – then the anger had welled up and those dark eyes had burned as Italian insults were slung back and forth. They continued to do so as the Brazilian visibly seethed on the podium, and later in the press conference where he'd brushed it all off through gritted teeth.  
  
Fernando had watched the tape of it back later that evening. His admittedly insincere apology, the pat on the arm he gave, and Felipe's distasteful glance at the gesture...and those eyes. The fire in them had been tamped down slightly, but it was still there. And Fernando couldn't stop thinking about it. That delicious fury aimed at him, a heated glare shot from chocolate brown eyes...  
  
He remembered, directly after that conference, trotting slightly across the tarmac to catch up with the Ferrari driver. At the time, he had no idea why he wanted to keep pushing the other man who clearly didn't want to be breathing the same air as him right at that moment, much less why his opening gambit had been so audacious.  
  
"Hey, it would be nice if you would maybe accept my apology," he'd said, a degree of confrontation in his voice as he grasped Felipe's arm to stop him. "I did that while the world was watching, you could at least acknowledge that."  
  
Felipe had responded by snatching his arm away and giving that glare again. It felt a lot more like a warning this time, now the cameras were absent. Fernando probably would have pressed the issue even further had it not been for Mark, who'd hurried over on seeing the two of them in another altercation.  
  
"Leave it mate, I really don't think it's a good idea," he'd said, hand on Fernando's shoulder to turn him away. The Spaniard frowned and Mark clarified. Sort of. "I think the only way he'd even give you the time of day for the next week or so is by making you count the teeth he'd just punched out of your head." Fernando's mouth moved without sound, and when he looked back the other way, Felipe was already gone.  
  
A few days later, when that look would keep flickering into his mind's eye, Fernando had begun to realise that it fascinated him. He wanted to see it again.  
  
  
Initially, Fernando found it strange. He would sit and think to himself that if he was going for physical appearance, he'd be lusting after Kimi or Nico, and if he wanted personality, it'd be Heikki. Felipe hadn't exactly been beaten with an ugly stick and he wasn't antagonistic or openly arrogant, but the Brazilian just hadn't been on his radar in either respect. Every time his thoughts would wander in that direction, he would be interrupted by that damn look, the sullen pout and dark eyes that simmered with anger.  
  
The last time he let himself worry about it was one evening when he was slumped down low in a chair out on the balcony of his hotel room, a little dozy after a restaurant dinner with a beer held loose in his hand and resting on his thigh. Hazy gaze roaming the night sky, Fernando thought about Kimi, about Nico and Heikki, and then Felipe was there, pervading his mind's eye. Taking a long swig from his bottle, his free hand drifted down to unbutton his jeans. The chair creaked slightly as he lifted his hips in time with the languid strokes. Felipe's small frame hunched over him there, one leg hitched up onto the armrest. He glared down, spat those same Italian curses at him as before, prodded him in the chest, twisted a hand in his shirt and bent close enough to kiss. _I hate you,_ the Brazilian growled, and Fernando's head rocked back, a low chuckle unfurling from his throat, eyes glazed with desire. _I hate you,_ Felipe's voice echoed, and Fernando shuddered, arched, the burn of pleasure in the pit of his stomach igniting.  
  
When his body relaxed, the phantom Felipe evaporated and he was alone again. A ripple of something passed through him, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, and he shivered just lightly.  
  
The darkness rolled in across the sky and he slowly emptied his beer, half listening to the sound of nightlife, of other people on their balconies, chatting, laughing. Fernando's mind remained elsewhere, unconsciously acknowledging the notion that the glare his mind kept drifting to didn't just fascinate him, it aroused him. And his fantasies, no matter how vivid, would be no match for the real thing.


	3. I'lll Burn Your Heart Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He would keep pushing Felipe, with reasonable subtlety at first, for the rest of the season, harder and harder until the Brazilian would snap._

_Fernando's POV._  
  
Fernando credited himself with enough intelligence not to do anything too blatant to provoke the Brazilian, especially when there were cameras around. You know, so it would only ever be Felipe's word against his, and what with McLaren and Ferrari's long standing rivalry, such off the record incidents would likely be treated with no more than perhaps a quiet word from Ron and a 'here we go again' from everyone else.  
  
What Fernando hadn't expected to deal with was an upstart of a rookie team mate who seemed determined to undermine, disrespect and embarrass him at every turn. Whilst skirting around questions about his tense relationship with Lewis, Fernando was also starting to give careful answers to questions about his seemingly increasingly fraught relationship with Felipe. Was there some sort of personal vendetta involved? Was he out to make enemies this year? Did it stem from the touch at the Nürburgring? Would there be an Ecclestone-enforced handshake between them before the season was out? Questions, questions, questions...  
  
Perhaps he should have realised sooner that, if there was a hint of a sour relationship in Formula One, the media would seek out and seize upon every little nuance of bad feeling between two drivers, regardless of how subtle he was trying to be.  
  
  
While checking into the hotel in Istanbul, Fernando caught sight of Felipe ascending the small marble staircase to the entrance. The foyer was relatively quiet, and, when Fernando stepped into the elevator to head to his room, he held the doors for Felipe. The Brazilian seemed about to say thank you when he realised who he was about to share the elevator with, and his smile dropped away. He stepped to the side and fixed his eyes on the adjacent elevator.  
  
"Are you going up to your room?" Fernando asked, thumb still holding the button.  
  
"I'll wait," Felipe replied shortly, still watching the other elevator.  
  
Fernando sighed. "Come on," he said in a smooth enough voice that Felipe actually looked at him. "Does it have to be like this all of the time? Can we be civil for just a moment?"  
  
Felipe eyed the other man and took a step towards the open doors, hesitated, then gave his little suitcase a tug and carried on.  
  
Fernando's thumb slipped off the door hold button, and the last thing Felipe would have seen was Fernando's smirk. The last thing Fernando saw was Felipe stumbling back so his foot wouldn't get caught in the doors and the look of thunder that spread over his face.  
  
On leaving the elevator at his floor, Fernando waited long enough for Felipe to arrive in the second one, and his expression hadn't changed. In fact, it seemed to darken on spotting the Spaniard leaning against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets. Felipe gave his case a sharper tug than before as he walked right up to the other man. "Do you have a problem with me?" he growled.  
  
Fernando smiled. "Are you always so slow? Perhaps you shouldn't be in Formula One."  
  
Felipe gave a mild sneer, appearing relatively unruffled. "Are you lonely because Flavio isn't there to suck your dick?" Fernando's smile faded minutely, and Felipe persisted, tilting his head in mock-enquiry. "Are you looking for attention because you're not the favourite anymore?"  
  
A beat and Fernando leaned forward, speaking in an insidious hiss. "How does it feel to never have been the favourite? Are you lonely because you've never had your dick sucked?"  
  
Anger flared in Felipe's eyes before he could hold it back. "It's not about being favourite, you child," he spat, turning on his heel and stalking away down the corridor. On reaching the corner he twisted around halfway and raised his hand. " _Va a cagare!_ "  
  
Fernando exhaled when Felipe disappeared out of sight, relaxing against the wall as his heart raced, adrenalin buzzing through his system. Felipe had been so close, so angry, such a dark burn of fury somewhere in him occasionally getting the chance to leak out, just a tantalising little taste... He felt like he'd done a few laps around Catalunya. It had felt like foreplay.  
  
A hotel porter rounded the corner Felipe had just passed, meeting Fernando's eyes and averting them just as quickly as he strode towards the elevators. It must have been, Fernando would think later, that hotel porter who passed on the incident to the press. Paddock talk of a minor altercation developed into tabloid gossip about a blazing row with punches thrown, the police being called, _I heard they spent a night in the cells, isn't that a bad example? I always knew he had a temper, I always knew not to cross him..._ Friday's press conference saw them both fielding questions about it, and both dismissing the incident as merely a 'conversation'.  
  
The questions made it feel like gossip to Fernando. It was much more precious than that, and he wanted more of it. He would keep pushing Felipe, with reasonable subtlety at first, for the rest of the season, harder and harder until the Brazilian would snap.  
  
  
Of course, that was the plan. Felipe, however, wasn't interested in following it. He barely said a word to Fernando off track; probably was making a point of _not_ talking to him. Or rather, he was probably making a point of talking to Lewis.  
  
Two distinct, relatively unfamiliar emotions hit Fernando square in the gut when he spotted his team mate and Felipe in close conversation in the paddock. He saw the grins and the backslapping, the clear, honest camaraderie between the two of them, and somewhat inexplicably, he felt scared. Genuine fear clutched cold at his stomach. Feeling, as he did at the time, left out in the cold by his own team, either disliked or just plain dismissed by his team mate...now the object of his lust chose to not even look at him and instead to giggle and converse in a secretive fashion with that wretched golden boy. Was _everything_ just going to slip away from him?  
  
The next thing he felt, hot on the heels of that disconcerting fear, was...shit, he could barely bring himself to acknowledge it.  
  
Jealousy. He was jealous of Lewis. And not, he began to realise as he found himself staring at Felipe across the paddock, for quite the same reasons as before.  
  
Lewis caught him looking first. Traces of a frown flitted over his face, and then Felipe turned his head to see what had caught the younger man's eye. Fernando saw his expression change from curious to distasteful in an instant when he met the Spaniard's eyes, and he looked away again.   
  
_~~~Felipe's POV.~~~_  
  
When Felipe broke eye contact, the Brazilian saw two things; out of the corner of his eye he saw Lewis still watching his team mate, and reflected in the mirrored surface of the opposite wall he saw Fernando look a little stricken, looking down to the Red Bull in his hands, then back up towards them. Felipe steadfastly continued to look off into the middle distance, not looking directly at the Spaniard's reflection, his cheeriness having suddenly evaporated. Fernando, after a few moments, turned and left. Felipe finally turned his head and watched him go, before he resumed drinking his Red Bull in sullen silence.  
  
"Did you see that?" Lewis asked, nodding his head towards the door Fernando had left through. Felipe only gave a non-committal grunt, and Lewis pressed the issue. "He had this...puppydog look on his face. I mean," he paused, sounding disbelieving of his own words. "He looked upset."  
  
Finally Felipe met Lewis's eyes, frowning a little. The frown smoothed out after a moment, and he snorted contemptuously. "He's probably jealous that everybody wants to talk to you, not him. Mr. Double World Champion, after all," he sneered.  
  
Lewis shook his head. "I don't think so. I think he was looking at you."  
  
Felipe stiffened slightly at that, then looked over his shoulder at that door for a long few moments. Another frown flitted over his features. _What the hell is wrong with him? Does he want something from me?_ Half formed answers came, but he really didn't like where any of them were going, so he clamped down on them and looked back to Lewis, shaking his head.  
  
"You must be mistaken," he said bluntly, and would hear no more about it. The frown did not leave his face.  
  
 _~~~Fernando's POV.~~~_  
  
No, Felipe did not make it easy for Fernando, from which drivers he chose to be close friends with to avoiding him wherever possible. In fact he only got perhaps one or two chances to antagonise the Brazilian the remainder of the season, and before he knew it Felipe was deep in winter testing and Fernando was in team limbo. They scarcely saw each other from one month to the next, so Fernando was left with his fantasies. When he wasn't talking to his manager and discussing contracts or possible test drives, they were all he thought about – to the point where Felipe became his last thought at night and first thought in the morning, where he would imagine the smaller man appearing on his doorstep, full of venom and looking for a fight. He wondered what it would take to push him over the edge and get that craved reaction. Fuck, he was infatuated. He needed more.  
  
So, and he still wasn't quite sure how it happened beyond being as persuasive as he could, he found himself in Maranello, decked out in blood red and taking the F2007 out for a spin around Ferrari's home track. The prancing horse wasn't about to drop its latest world champion in favour of him, so someone else had to go.  
  
Fernando didn't know how that decision came about. The drivers were usually the last to know a lot of things, and frankly he didn't want to know. It made him feel uncomfortable to think of the meeting where this had been decided, a bunch of suits around some weighty mahogany table deciding whether or not to let the guillotine drop. He'd told himself it was just business. It was just how things were.  
  
The thought of that didn't make him half as uncomfortable as being in that damn meeting where Felipe was told of his position – or lack of it – at Ferrari.  
  
 _Is this how they usually do it? Is this how it really happened to Rubens? Is this how it'll happen to me?_ Thoughts raced through Fernando's head once he found out exactly what the meeting was going to entail, thoughts that were quickly banished for fear of them spiralling into paranoia.   
  
He sat there and barely said a word, sat there and shrunk down in his seat, watching as Felipe went from bright and cheery on entrance, to perplexed on sight of Fernando, to only just stopping short of screaming the place down as the eject button was pressed on his Ferrari seat.  
  
Half of Fernando had wanted to disappear. The other half had been utterly fascinated as Felipe damn near had a total breakdown before his eyes.  
  
He still couldn't explain why the Brazilian's implosion set off sparks inside him. In truth, he did not think too much about it, because he wasn't sure how deep it went nor if he should be entirely comfortable with taking such pleasure in another's pain. He'd never felt it before, not to this extent. Not even with Lewis.  
  
  
Here he was, then, whatever the reason. He'd followed Felipe as the younger man had fled from the meeting, all the way back to his hotel and here he was in his room, uninvited, watching Felipe's reflection as he scrubbed at his eyes, oblivious of the other man's presence. Now there was silence, now the dust had settled and the man whom he hadn't been this physically close to for months was stood right in front of him, without a wisp of the fury that had been there moments before. The sight spirited away any lust that had been sparked off by Felipe's initial reaction to his appearance, and that absence, coupled with the flickers of guilt, made his head spin a little. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected to want so badly to hold him and nothing more, until the ache in his own chest – the one he was only now really becoming consciously aware of – went away.  
  
Alarmed by this change in his own feelings, Fernando momentarily thought about leaving. In that same moment, however, Felipe raised his head, and his expression took a while to change as he locked eyes with the Spaniard, perhaps unsure if he was only an apparition come to haunt him. Once the realisation hit, so did the inevitable visible resurgence of anger and disbelief, of anguish, and for some moments the silence hung weighty in the air as Felipe simply stared at Fernando's reflection. He trembled, just a little.  
  
Fernando waited for Felipe to do or say something, anything. But he didn't, and that made him nervous. Had he actually pushed the other man too far, far enough for something in his head to just pop? Was he catatonic with rage? Was this some psych-out? Fernando stood and he waited and he _waited_ and was Felipe broken? Was Felipe staring at him so hard in the hope that he might catch fire? He waited and waited and he couldn't wait anymore. It was clear in his voice that his nerve had broken.  
  
"Y-you shouldn't be so rude like that, I...you must let me exp-"  
  
Felipe interrupted him with a disbelieving whisper. "Why the hell are you talking?" he asked, still staring at the reflection. Fernando opened his mouth but failed to speak and Felipe spun around, repeating the question, louder and more strained. Fernando felt his heart do a flip at Felipe's proximity; that heated glare inches from his face. Felipe didn't appear to have anything else to add, and the two of them once again stood in tense silence. Fernando raised his hands in a defensive gesture, and when Felipe made no move in response, he tentatively let those hands settle on Felipe's shoulders.  
  
 _His bare shoulders._  
  
The Spaniard felt his face heat up a little. He could barely keep his eyes from drifting down Felipe's chest, suddenly finding himself very aware that not only was the man he had been lusting after right there in front of him, under his touch, tempting warmth at his fingers and palms, but he was also half naked and wow, it really felt hot in there. Christ.  
  
Still Felipe did not wrench away, still he stood and glared in that deliciously hateful way. A voice whispered through Fernando's head as their gazes remained locked, caramel on chocolate.  
  
 _Kiss him. This is it, your chance, kiss him. It's what you want. He's right there._  
  
He felt his gut tighten.


	4. The Truth Unwinding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You're an even more terrible person than I thought."_

_Felipe's POV._  
  
"I didn't mean for this to happen like this," Fernando murmured.  
  
Felipe let out a brittle laugh that sounded like a gunshot, tensing up under Fernando's hands. "Like this? How else could 'this' have happened? Didn't you have time to buy me a box of chocolates?"  
  
"I didn't think," Fernando began, trailing off as he focussed on the hollow of Felipe's throat, seemingly trying to regain his composure, or steel himself, or something. He took a breath. "I didn't think it would be so..."  
  
"Easy?" Felipe offered bitterly. "Something you could do without a conscience?"  
  
Fernando finally brought the word to his lips. "Painful." Then, quieter, "I didn't think it would be so painful."  
  
The fire in Felipe's eyes fizzled out, confusion flitting over his face briefly before being left not really knowing how to feel in that moment. He could rage in the face of his foe all he wanted but it would be impotent and pointless and, after an admission like that, it felt forced. But not having that anger swirling dark and ominous inside him left him feeling fucking empty, which was worse. What was a boy to do?  
  
"You're a fucking," he began, but had no end to his statement formed, so he fell silent. Sagging slightly, he actually leaned a little against Fernando's hands and closed his eyes, not having it in him to shrug the other man off. When he opened them again and Fernando was still there, hands still on him and now looking right at him, he almost wanted to laugh. He shook his head a little. "I don't really know why you're here."  
  
Fernando edged a little closer, thumbs rubbing over Felipe's shoulders. "There were things I wanted to say to you," he murmured. "I didn't think Ferrari would do that, not like that. They were going to offer you the seat as test driver..."  
  
"Test driver," Felipe growled, stiffening. "They really think that's a reasonable—" He cut himself off, frowning when he noticed Fernando's proximity, the gentleness of his touch. Now he pulled away, glaring at the Spaniard. "Ferrari," he hissed, as if the name burned on his tongue. "I never thought I would feel like this about them, I never thought it was possible, I—" For a moment he was more distraught than angry, then rounded on Fernando again, jabbing a finger at him. "I know, I tell you I know for a _fact_ ," and now there was a vindicating snarl in his voice, "that Ferrari would not have gone to you, you must have gone to them." He exhaled, breath hissing through his teeth, and when he spoke again emotion was beginning to choke his words and clog his thoughts. "They wouldn't do that to me. They wouldn't. I was loved there, I was taken care of and taught and given so much and treated so well, and I loved that team with my whole heart." He was wounded but unfaltering as he stared hard at Fernando. "They _would not_ do that to me."  
  
He spun and stalked around in a circle, body taut, wanting to hit something but having nothing in close enough proximity but Fernando, and the bastard would only duck away. He made a noise, an odd sort of raw growl, half-sob, hiss of a thing, and though tears had filled his storm-dark eyes, he would not, he would fucking _not_ let them drop. Suddenly he stopped, hands balled into tight fists at his sides, scowl carved deep into his features. "You didn't even have the respect—you had to be the devious one you always fucking are and wait until so late in the winter break to go to Ferrari, what chance did I have, huh?"  
  
Fernando suddenly looked a little fragile, a glassy sheen appearing in his eyes before he looked away, to the side, down, anywhere but at Felipe. The Brazilian's breath hitched as Fernando's eyes left him, the move taking the wind out of his sails. The other man's demeanour had been odd to say the least today, right from the meeting, but the look on his face now was stark in its distress. He paused for breath and ducked his head, trying to re-attain Fernando's gaze. "What's that? What's that look, huh?" He laughed again, the sound bitter enough that it appeared to make Fernando flinch. "Oh please, perhaps you're finally feeling some guilt? Do you think I'm an idiot, that I would fall—"  
  
Felipe stopped as Fernando rubbed a hand over his face. A flash of utter disbelief shrieked through the smaller man's mind, comprehension at the other man's suddenly averted eyes.  
  
"When did you go to them?" he asked in a low voice.  
  
Fernando didn't answer at first. His gaze would occasionally flit back to Felipe, but would skitter away just as quickly. At a less desperate, less distressing time, Felipe might've enjoyed watching him squirm so much. "Surely now it doesn't matter," he finally said.  
  
Felipe's eyes blazed as he marched back up to Fernando, perhaps hoping the closer he was the more clear his words would be.  
  
"It matters to _me_ ," he snarled hoarsely, ignoring the swoop of dread in his stomach. "When did you—"  
  
"Brazil," Fernando interrupted, swallowing. "I went to them after the race in Brazil."  
  
The rage in Felipe died, swirling down into his body until it tangled up into a knot of anxiety in his stomach. He wanted to accuse Fernando of lying, badly enough that his throat ached with the need to say the word. _Liar. You're a liar._  
  
At least that was the reason he told himself why his throat ached.  
  
Fernando seemingly had regained his nerve, and Felipe found himself confronted with pained caramel eyes as he struggled to form words. They didn't help.  
  
"They didn't want me," Fernando asserted. "Th-they wouldn't even really talk to me back then, we didn't speak for more than a few minutes. I just, I don't know, I," he clenched and unclenched his hands, voice dropping to a murmur. "I wanted to get close."  
  
 _Then what changed,_ Felipe hissed inwardly, both confused and irritated at the Spaniard's continued unusual behaviour.  
  
"You're an even more terrible person than I thought." He shook his head, feeling increasingly helpless, like some tide was sweeping him out to sea. "You probably don't even care, but I didn't think I would ever hate any driver in Formula One. I really hate you for this, and it's not as if I can go after you on the track and make your races hell now I have this-this sabbatical forced on me." Felipe leaned forward, just in case the words weren't getting through, in case the stark reality of what Fernando had done was failing to penetrate. "You might have ruined my _career_!"  
  
"I'll go back," Fernando began.  
  
Felipe narrowed his eyes. "What?"  
  
"I'll go back and tear up the contract. Then you can go back. I've made a mistake, but I-I can fix it."  
  
Felipe stared in disbelief for a few moments, incoherent sounds emerging from his open mouth, before flying at Fernando with a hoarse cry, fists raised with the same blind rage as before. "You really think it's that simple, don't you?!" he snarled as Fernando caught his wrists before those fists could make contact. "Mr. Double World fucking Champion, you think you can just snap your fingers and it all goes away?! You arrogant piece of shit!"  
  
"I'll fix it, I'll fix it," Fernando continued to mutter, gaze averted again, even as Felipe pushed against him.  
  
"You go back there and tear that contract up, I tell you, _nobody_ will want to touch you, not sponsors, not teams, nobody. You know that. Why ruin your own career over this? I would never go back to Ferrari, and they would never have me back after today, so I don't understand why you would even think like this—"  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Felipe's eyes threatened to pop out of his head, and he actually needed a moment to absorb what Fernando had just said. He stared, chest expanding with one of those deep, cleansing breaths that don't tend to cleanse particularly well if you're borderline apoplectic. " _Sorry?!_ "  
  
"I've made," Fernando began, but appeared unable find the remaining words. "I'm sorry, I-I've fucked this up."  
  
Silence fell in the room but for Felipe's slightly heavier breathing. His arms slowly lowered to chest height, Fernando's hands still holding onto his wrists. He was utterly, completely staggered by this, by the whirl of emotions he never expected to see in Fernando's eyes – dear God, the other man actually looked cowed. Torn between seething rage and desperate disbelief, he shook his head, mouth moving a few times before any sound emerged.  
  
"I don't understand... _any_ of this."  
  
Fernando returned his gaze, looking halfway between pained and defeated.  
  
"Felipe," he said, voice dropped to a choked murmur as it all began to tumble hopelessly out of him. "I know...I know that you're not supposed to be friends with other drivers, you're supposed to stay competitive, and so you shouldn't...you shouldn't...I didn't want to be friends with you. Y-you were angry with me, so angry with me at the Nürburgring, and I felt something here and here," he patted his chest and stomach. "It was _nice_ for me, it gave me pleasure, because I realised that I'm very attracted to you when you're angry. I-I did this because I enjoy causing you pain and making you angry. But it's too far and too much now, because you don't have a contract or a manager and I didn't know when to stop or how to-to have direction with what I was feeling, what I _am_ feeling right now, and," Fernando's expression veered all the way into defeated as he paused. "I think I'm a little in love with you."  
  
Felipe felt something intangible crash down onto his shoulders, sink deep into his chest and strike his heart numb. The rage all but evaporated from him in a scant few seconds, leaving him with shattering disbelief and that nerveless organ beating away in his chest.  
  
He stared. God, all he could do was stare. He felt his throat constrict when he tried to talk, and when he could talk, it was redundant, it was obvious and it was shaking with far more emotion than before.  
  
"I-I don't...understand..."  
  
Fernando's pained expression did not fade. He let go of Felipe's wrists, fingertips brushing absently over the faint bruise growing on his jawbone from Felipe's right hook earlier. "I can apologise again, if you want me to," he murmured lamely. His voice dropped further. "I don't think I have anything else to say."  
  
Felipe understood. He understood the words and the truth in them, but the _why_ , the exasperating, unbelievable, shattering _why_ of it all was escaping him. Hesitantly his arms lowered until they hung limp at his sides, eyes tearing away from those before him in case they swallowed him up. Then, looking entirely lost, he turned away and walked over to the bed, sitting heavily on the far side edge. His head spun. He didn't think he was going to throw up again though, which he supposed was...something?  
  
 _I'm a little in love with you._  
  
Fernando hadn't yet moved and Felipe was glad of it, but now he wasn't quite sure what to do.  
  
The reason the Spaniard had given for essentially turfing him out of his Ferrari seat so late in the off season that there was no chance any other team would, or could, take him was that...he was attracted to him. No, he was _in love_ with him, however small the amount.  
  
It couldn't be a lie. Who would tell a lie that outlandish and seriously expect it to be acceptable? Either Fernando was an idiot – and, being one of the casual observers of the last season's drama, Felipe had come to see him as petulant, bad tempered and a horrifically bad loser, but anything but an idiot – or he was telling the truth. Felipe didn't ask, barely even wondered if it was part of the sick joke being pulled on him by his ex-team. He didn't need to ask, because his answer was right there in those damned miserable caramel eyes.  
  
But...just... _what?_ When did he become part of a soap opera? (The minute you got into your first Formula One car, a wry, phantom DC said somewhere in his mind.) How did it get so completely backwards so suddenly? He'd been quite sure that Fernando hated him a fair amount, and he in turn was happy to idly dislike him in return. This, _this_ wretched situation hadn't been on his radar, hadn't even been in the same fucking universe as him this morning.  
  
His train of thought grew larger and more monstrous and more out of control with each passing second until it just...stopped. He sank a little, looking even smaller than before, and looked vacantly at the carpet. He did not say another word as his mind simply blanked out.


	5. Can You See That I Am Needing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Take him. He's right there. He's yours._

_Fernando's POV._  
  
Fernando fiddled with a loose thread on his trousers, awkward and uncertain as he watched Felipe's turned back. The Brazilian was silent and still, worryingly so, and Fernando wondered once again with a distinct pang of dread if something had broken in Felipe's mind.  
  
A tiny part of him had hoped, however distant a possibility it had been, that the other man would have heard that timid declaration of love and fallen into his arms. Perhaps that's why he'd done what he'd done; some twisted bit of logic telling him that if he wrecked Felipe's career at Ferrari, he could then be there for him to be the shoulder to cry on. Perhaps he was just trying to justify it. Perhaps he should just go.  
  
 _No. No, this is it, this is still your chance. You can make up for this, you can redeem yourself, you can be good to him. You can have him._  
  
With that whisper in his ear from the devil on his shoulder, Fernando pushed a hand through his hair to steady his nerves and approached the bed. He settled next to Felipe, who didn't appear to notice him, and watched him in silence for a long few moments. Then, once again, another apprehensive apology passed his lips. He reached out, eliminating the remaining space between them with a tentative hand coming to rest on Felipe's shoulder. The Brazilian didn't flinch at the touch, didn't angrily shrug him off, and this made worry crawl further up Fernando's spine.  
  
 _He's just despondent. Comfort him. Make him feel better._  
  
That voice again, that itchy little need he'd been inadvertently listening to since the start of all this. Not knowing what else to do now he was in so deep, he continued to follow its advice.  
  
He shifted a fraction closer, his hand rubbing small circles over Felipe's skin, rough palm gently massaging his shoulder blade. During the Christmas break, since he was spending more time at home in São Paulo, Felipe's skin had regained that golden sheen that looked so smooth and perfect, Latino skin that all he wanted was to kiss and touch. The air felt heavy, his hand moving in larger circles across warm skin and fingertips following the arch of Felipe's spine, down, down... His other hand came up, fingers ghosting around Felipe's jawbone to gently encourage his head to turn. Long eyelashes veiled dulled brown eyes at first.  
  
 _Take him. He's right there. He's yours._  
  
"I'm sorry," Fernando murmured voice just above a whisper, and if he was allowing himself to think beyond the man before him he would begin to wonder exactly what he was apologising for.  
  
Felipe's eyes finally rose to meet Fernando's, and there wasn't much behind his gaze, not much at all. The occasional flicker of something the he couldn't put a name to, but none of the fire that the Spaniard had come to adore; no rage, no glowering darkness. He looked numb. He looked...  
  
 _He needs you._  
  
Fernando swallowed, brushing a thumb over Felipe's jawbone and moving still closer, the proximity enough to make his heart thud hard in his chest.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said once again, then, "Please."  
  
What was he apologising for? What was he asking for? He didn't have any answers and by now his instinct, his _want_ was too strong. What would be the purpose of second thoughts when he was already leaning in, already letting his hand slide down the curve of Felipe's neck and skate fingers over his collarbone, already brushing his lips against the other man's in the beginnings of a searingly gentle kiss. Heat stirred in Fernando at that tender touch alone, and though Felipe didn't respond to it, neither did he resist. Didn't push Fernando away and recoil in disgust, didn't give him another of those possibly formidable right hooks, didn't whimper needily and press himself into him. It was enough. Fernando tilted his head, deepening the kiss just a fraction and not quite daring to believe this was happening, halfway between suspended desire and clouded sense. Still Felipe did not push him away, and Fernando continued to harvest the hope that maybe, _maybe_ things were going to be fine.  
  
Buoyed by the thought, that little whisper of hope, he let his eyes slip closed, arm sliding around Felipe's waist. _Mine now. Mine._  
  
The moment he felt Felipe's hands on him, warm through the thin cotton of his shirt, Fernando felt his heart leap. The Brazilian relaxed in his arms, allowed himself to be pressed back into the sheets, and when Fernando opened his eyes, head spinning a little from just how much and how long he'd been wanting these moments, he found Felipe looking right back up at him. Looking right _at_ him, not through him as before, and the dulled glaze that had pervaded those chocolate brown eyes was gone. Stillness settled as the kiss ended and Fernando became aware of their position; his palms flat on the sheets as he looked down at the smaller man, one denim-clad thigh nudging another, Felipe's hands curled into his shirt. Felipe stared at him unflinchingly, the slightest frown creasing his brow. Fernando couldn't read his expression, but he told himself that anything was better than that worrying blankness of before, so he smiled a little. Felipe did not return that smile. Instead, his gaze flicked down to his hands, then back up.  
  
"Take your shirt off," he murmured flatly, giving the garment a little tug as if his meaning wasn't explicitly clear.  
  
Fernando blinked, hesitating in surprise. When Felipe's expression did not change, Fernando straightened and hurriedly tugged the garment off with an elated smile. As he folded himself back down, covering Felipe's body with his own, he pressed thankful kisses to the Brazilian's neck, murmuring against the warm skin.  
  
"I love you," he whispered, before initiating another gentle kiss, one that Felipe responded to, tilting his head up and smoothing his hands down Fernando's torso. Spurred on by the touch, Fernando blindly struggled out of his shoes and jeans, kicking them off and helping Felipe remove his. Between them they squirmed up the bed, Felipe digging his heels into the duvet as Fernando's hands ventured down his body.  
  
When the smaller man let out a gasped moan at the dual sensation of fingers brushing the inside of his thigh and the mouth sucking lightly at the skin of his throat, Fernando abandoned every thought given to his conscience. _Mine. Mine,_ an excited voice whispered over and over in his mind. There was nothing holding him back now. Felipe had given himself over, and Fernando felt as though he was floating.


	6. Watching The Fantasies Decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"_ I'm _here," he said, returning to the bed. He let his fingertips glide around Felipe's jawline, an earnest determination in his eyes. "I'm here," he repeated._

_Felipe's POV._  
  
Abruptly Fernando sat up again. "Wait," he said breathlessly, damn near scrambling backwards off the bed. "Right in that spot," he added with a smile, then hurried into the bathroom.  
  
Felipe remained where he was as instructed, only moving to push himself up onto the heels of his palms. He sat there in silence, listening to Fernando shuffling things around in the bathroom and looking blankly across the room. When the Spaniard still didn't return, he spoke.  
  
"There is some lubricant and a few condoms in the side pocket of my bag," he called out. The movement in the bathroom stopped and silence fell for a couple of moments, then came the soft footfalls of Fernando's bare feet. Felipe looked over his shoulder to see the other man stood there with a look of dumb surprise on his face, and nodded to the leather hold-all by the window. Fernando followed his gesture and knelt by the bag, and indeed there was a small tube and three or four condoms to be found in that side pocket. When he stood again with the items in his hands he looked to Felipe, a question clearly playing on his lips. Perhaps happily, he did not need to ask it.  
  
"I thought maybe Michael would be here," Felipe said, and though his tone was quite achingly soft as he looked off into the middle distance, when his gaze swung around to the Spaniard his eyes took on a cold stare. _Don't you fucking say a word about it. Not a fucking word._  
  
Fernando looked a little shaken by this; Felipe had been well aware of the rumours that had circulated the paddock, but perhaps Fernando had never really believed them. A few moments and the other man recovered, holding his head up a little higher. " _I'm_ here," he said, returning to the bed. He let his fingertips glide around Felipe's jawline, an earnest determination in his eyes. "I'm here," he repeated. Felipe remained impassive as the other man bent to kiss him.  
  
As unconscious pleasure began to whisper through Felipe's bloodstream with the progress of Fernando's hands and mouth over his body, he relaxed back onto the bed, legs spreading instinctively as one of those hands followed the curve of his inner thigh. His muscles twitched, nerves tingling at the barely there brush of Fernando's thumb over the sensitive skin, and heat began to swirl low in his stomach. Still that was all there was, though – no conscious drive for more, for a rougher touch or slower hand, no spurt of nervous emotion, no want. It was all instinct. He wasn't really there.  
  
His breath hitched, the touches more intimate, the kisses deeper, Fernando letting out enough lustful moans for the both of them, and his own hands began to caress and reciprocate, pulling Fernando's body down to press against his, fingertips digging into the small of the other man's back. Soon he found himself eagerly returning the kisses, a new hunger in his movements as he lifted his hips in erratic complement to the rocking of Fernando's hips, teased by the rub of the other man's cock against his skin and then the feel of slick fingers pressing into him.  
  
Felipe let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a whine, the sound humming against Fernando's neck. Fernando gave a breathless laugh, his earlier nerves evidently gone, and he nosed at the damp curls of Felipe's hair. "That sounds good."  
  
Felipe only panted in response, reaching out for one of the condoms scattered beside him, blindly grasping one and pressing it to Fernando's chest. Fernando clasped that hand, kissing one of Felipe's knuckles and tearing the packet open. As he sat back a little, Felipe watched his shoulders rise and fall with each breath, the way his hair slipped forward as he looked down. The Brazilian stroked Fernando's thigh absently, and as his concentration began to dissipate he felt his hips being lifted. Chocolate eyes rose to meet caramel and Felipe pulled Fernando down to him again, mouths meeting in a crush in complement to that brief sting as Fernando pushed into him. He panted a curse against the other man's mouth, a sharp increase of pleasure thrumming through his veins, and Fernando gave that breathless laugh again. If Felipe was more conscious of anything, he'd probably wonder if Fernando was laughing at him, being fucked by the man who may very well have sent his career on the beginning of its downswing.  
  
The bed beneath them creaked quietly, Fernando's hips rocking too gently against his ass. He wasn't being fucked, everything was too gentle, too caring; there was real love in Fernando's touch, even reverence. He whined softly, but Fernando appeared to take this the wrong way as he bent to scatter soft kisses over Felipe's throat, his smile tangible if not visible as it skimmed over tanned skin. Felipe's jaw clenched, tears springing to his eyes in muted frustration. _I want you to_ fuck _me,_ his mind raged, but the words wouldn't pass his lips. All he did was raise his hips slightly, dig his fingertips into the Spaniard's back and close his eyes, letting the sensations wash over him. Drown him, if he was truly lucky.  
  
Fernando's lips fell to his collarbone, kissing and then sucking, mouth opening wider to suck harder and swirl his tongue over the skin. Felipe arched and clasped the back of Fernando's head, and God help him a smile graced his lips, even as he hiccoughed a breath. His hips now rocked in time with the other man's, and as soft moans whispered over his skin Felipe began to echo them, fingers tangled in dark curls of hair and muscles flexing in steady rhythm. He pulled his legs higher, ankles hooking together behind Fernando's back, a silent request for more, for deeper, and when the other man's hand moved to grip the underside of his thigh he whimpered in thanks.  
  
"Felipinho," Fernando murmured, feverish glow lighting his eyes. Felipe shuddered, and he was unsure if it was from the pleasure coursing through his veins or the nickname. Forcing away any more thoughts of that nature, he instead focussed on the delicious sensations as Fernando rocked into him, the rhythmic shocks that shot up his spine as Fernando found his sweet spot. Occasionally the feeling made him hiss through his teeth; occasionally it was enough to take his breath away.  
  
It was different to Michael. Not better, not worse. Different. Fernando smelled different, breathed different, even the way his hands explored, the path, the pressure, the way he didn't immediately do the things Felipe liked because he didn't _know_ what Felipe liked, it was all different. And really, perhaps that was better. "Ah...Ferna—" the name was cut off along with his thoughts of the German as he gasped, reflexively clinging tighter when Fernando shifted them both, lifting Felipe's body, angling his thrusts, bending the smaller man until he found it harder to breathe. "Fernando," Felipe whined, and anything else was silenced when Fernando's mouth fastened to his in a consuming kiss.  
  
The pit of Felipe's stomach burned, fire rippling under his skin and chest heaving as Fernando's speed increased. The Spaniard's breath rasped against his cheek, the sound of it penetrating and prickling up his spine; the breath became words and, as pleasure spiralled him higher and higher, he could not respond to them.  
  
" _Te amo_ , _te amo_ ," Fernando said, wrapping a hand around Felipe's cock and pumping in time with the push of his hips. Felipe let out a sharp cry, and time felt suspended as his orgasm rushed up into him. He arched off the bed, shoulders pressing hard back into the pillow as his lithe body strained in powerful release, shuddering, again clinging to the man he was wrapped in as he rode it out, repeated cries passing his lips. When the rhythm of Fernando's thrusts fell away and the wet mouth sliding over his throat vibrated with cries of its own, Felipe briefly felt something cold clutch his stomach, even as the last moments of pleasure melted slowly away.  
  
Once still again, Fernando's forehead came to rest against his, warm glow of body heat blanketing the two of them. Felipe's eyes drew open and met with hazy caramel, and for once he was the one to initiate a kiss, fierce and full, hands coming up to thread into those loose dark curls now damp with sweat and plastered to pale skin.  
  
They fucked again minutes later, and this time, much to Felipe's gratitude, it did feel like a fuck: feverish and dirty and desperate, _quick before we're found out_ , as if they might be pushing their luck with some karmic being. Perhaps Fernando wanted to take all he could from this night, for fear of what the light of dawn would bring. Felipe didn't think about that, didn't care, because Fernando was fucking him, because his muscles burned with the effort of holding himself still, because his hand flew back to grip the headboard and hang on, because there were the faintest growls leaking from the other man's throat with every thrust of his hips. Because Fernando was fucking him and his world had dropped away.  
  
When nothing but the sound of laboured breathing filled the air, Felipe found himself wrapped in Fernando's arms, forehead resting at the crook of his neck. He swallowed against an aching throat, fatigued body incapable of much movement, fatigued mind incapable of much thought. He felt Fernando kiss the top of his head, and his eyelids grew heavy. Almost the moment his eyes slid shut, Felipe fell into a shattered sleep.


	7. Pay For All The Mistakes That You Have Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If it could all stay like this for a little longer..._

_Felipe's POV._  
  
  
It didn't last long.  
  
As his head rose and fell with the movement of a warm chest he awoke from his slumber with a sluggish disorientation, head giving out a dry throb, rubbing babyishly at his eyes before realising that he was curled against another body. As abruptly as could be possible for someone who'd just woken up, Felipe pushed himself up onto his elbow, looking down at the pale skin beneath his hand with a flicker or two of confusion. The arm that he hadn't noticed encircling his back moved, a rough palm rubbing the bare skin in perhaps instinctive comfort. Instinctive because Fernando appeared to be still asleep.  
  
 _Fernando_.  
  
Felipe blinked dozily, momentarily feeling a little breathless. He watched the other man for a few moments, feeling his body move as he breathed, the peaceful expression on his face. Then his gaze dropped, a tightness welling up in his chest rendering him unable to keep his eyes on the other man. Instead, he gently and silently lay back down in the same position he'd found himself in on waking, and as all traces of sleep had left him, Felipe gazed out into the darkness of the room, fingers absently stroking Fernando's chest, trying his very best not to think at all. Every second that went by, it became more and more difficult. Just as the backs of his eyes began to sting, Fernando stirred.  
  
The Spaniard cleared his throat, and the hand at Felipe's back moved up to round his shoulders, hugging him close.  
  
"Are you awake?"  
  
Felipe nodded into Fernando's chest after a moment. Fernando bent awkwardly to kiss the top of his head and stroke his hair, and at another time in another reality, Felipe might have melted into him. At that moment, though, the tender touches came very close to overwhelming him, and after spending what must've been a whole day of teetering on the edge or careering right off of it, it was an unpleasant feeling that tingled in his gut.  
  
There had been a tidal wave in his head, and now he was all clogged up with driftwood and debris, everything gummed together, not quite in place, and by God he was grateful for it. _If it could all stay like this for a little longer..._  
  
To cement that desire, Felipe shifted onto his elbow again and looked up to Fernando, who smiled fondly in return. Though Felipe couldn't bring himself to do the same, he pulled himself up to catch that smile in a tentative, soft kiss. The sensation of it shimmered through him, and there was a moment when it made his heart flicker. A whisper of hope.  
  
He settled back against Fernando's chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart.  
  
 _Maybe this...maybe we..._  
  
"I love you," Felipe heard Fernando whisper. He couldn't reply even if he wanted to.  
  
"I don't think we slept very long," Fernando then murmured, and when he spoke again it sounded as though he was smiling. "You must be exhausted."  
  
Felipe nodded again, eyes glazing almost in response to Fernando's words. His body felt leaden and his head hurt, and if he could stave off unpleasant thoughts for long enough, he might be able to lie curled against the man who loved him for the rest of the day. It might be nice. They might—  
  
"At least you don't have to get up really early anymore. I know Kimi would like that," Fernando chuckled.  
  
It took a long few moments, but the glaze cleared from Felipe's eyes. Fernando's words rolled around in his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull and becoming sharper and brighter and seemingly louder until the cobwebs, all that driftwood and debris, had been blasted from his head.  
  
 _At least you don't have to get up really early anymore.  
  
 **At least you don't have to get up really early anymore.**_  
  
Fernando's fingers were running through his hair, petting him as though he were some housecat, and in one vicious, searing instant Felipe imagined grasping that condescending hand in his own and squeezing so hard he could feel every single bone in Fernando's fingers snap one by one under the pressure. Instead, he stored that image in his head and sat upright, body sloping around until he sat on the edge of the bed. He heard Fernando shift behind him.  
  
"Felipe?"  
  
Fingertips brushed the small of the Brazilian's back. The touch didn't feel gentle, didn't feel tentative or soothing as it was probably intended to feel. It felt creeping, and he would have shivered if he'd had it in him. His mind may have been clear, but his body felt heavy and tired. That tidal wave that had been washing him out to sea now only washed over him, ineffective but cleansing. Dear God, where was he? Who was that with that skin-crawling touch, naked and wrapped in the sheets of his hotel bed? What had he done?  
  
 _What the hell had he done?_  
  
Slowly he shifted, turning until he faced Fernando, who had pushed himself up on one elbow, dark waves of hair unkempt, worry etched over his face. He reached out again.  
  
"I'm sorry, that didn't sound—"  
  
The hand reaching out stopped in mid-air when Felipe spoke.  
  
"You love me?"  
  
The fabric surrounding Fernando gave a soft _hshhh_ as he moved, sliding over to Felipe and looping an arm around his torso. "I do," he affirmed quietly. Long dark eyelashes veiled his gaze as he rested his cheek against Felipe's shoulder. "Sorry."  
  
Felipe swallowed, mind whirling briefly as he began to wonder, alarmingly for the first time that day, what exactly Fernando was apologising for. For taking his seat at Ferrari? For loving him? Or for what they'd just done?  
  
Rather meekly after a few moments of silence, Fernando raised his head to press a kiss to Felipe's jaw.   
  
Those words rippled through the Brazilian again.  
  
 _At least you don't have to get up really early anymore._  
  
He slipped out of Fernando's grasp, aching body protesting at the unwanted movement – Christ he felt so leaden – as he pulled himself to his feet and reached for his underwear and jeans. He heard Fernando speak, and though the words failed to penetrate, they sounded worried. Felipe whipped around as he pulled his jeans up, eyes briefly flaring with anger.  
  
"You," he paused to steady himself, to think. "Fernando. I don't want you here – I don't want you in _there_ ," he pointed to the bed as Fernando began to look panicked. "I don't want you near me. You should go."  
  
Fernando shook his head weakly, eyes wide. "I'm sorry—"  
  
" _What_ are you sorry for?"  
  
Somewhat surprisingly, Fernando replied instantly. "Not for how I feel."  
  
Inwardly, though he would absolutely not allow himself to show it, Felipe wavered at that. Fernando sounded and looked as though he meant it, caramel eyes almost defiant in their assertion – as if he would apologise for everything but not for being in love with him.  
  
"I think you might be sick," Felipe said eventually.  
  
"You don't really want me to go," Fernando responded, that defiance leaking into his voice. "You can't. After what we..." he smoothed a hand over the bed and the two of them watched its progress, the sight tickling at fresh memories in Felipe's mind of its soft touch, of slick skin and straining muscles, of wrapping his limbs around Fernando's body as the Spaniard rocked into him. Felipe's eyes grew glassy as he tore his gaze away from the bed and back to Fernando, who seemed similarly lost in the memories. When he finally did raise his head, he looked distressed. "You seemed happy."  
  
Felipe felt his throat begin to ache again. He tried to swallow the feeling away to no avail. "Then maybe I am sick too," he murmured quietly. A long, pained pause, and Felipe repeated himself. "You should go."  
  
Fernando held his gaze, but it was becoming clear through the sheer anguish on his face that he was crumbling. "Maybe we..." he began, faltered, and didn't complete the thought aloud. His hand flexed, grasping nothing, and then he leaned forward, reaching out to Felipe. The Brazilian stepped back, leaving Fernando's hand to hang there momentarily in mid-air. For a fleeting few instants, anger, dismay, frustration and desperation all passed over Fernando's face, and finally, at the end of it all, he just looked lost. There were a few moments of utter vulnerability in Fernando like Felipe had never seen before – the bruise at his jaw seemed all the more prominent now – and it only began to dissipate as the Spaniard slid out of the bed, dressing himself slowly beside the Brazilian. Felipe watched; he figured dourly that the sight was the least he was owed.  
  
Fernando smoothed his slightly creased shirt down over his stomach and raised his eyes to Felipe, who stood impassive. When he reached out for him this time, though, Felipe did not recoil. Fernando's hand brushed over his arm and up to his shoulder, the other man moving closer until he had gathered Felipe up in his arms, hands ghosting over his bare back in a barely there embrace.  
  
"If things were ever different," Fernando murmured into Felipe's hair in a low voice. "If I could go back, could we – do you think we might..."  
  
The full question was left unsaid, left suspended in the night air. Fernando's breath tickled Felipe's neck, and that unmistakeable fucking Spanish accent, as he'd mentally referred to it earlier, danced down his spine and made him shiver pleasantly. Warm hands had settled, one at his shoulder blade, one at the small of his back, and his mind fogged with just how nice it felt, how safe. Warm comfort through all the turmoil.  
  
Felipe allowed himself to give in, sinking into Fernando's chest, his head coming to rest on its side on the other man's shoulder, and as the hand at his shoulder blade moved across his back and the tiniest of kisses was pressed to the crook of his neck, the Brazilian ached with the need to break down and cry again. This felt like such safety in the darkness.   
  
But it wasn't.  
  
He closed his eyes, feeling Fernando's heartbeat against his chest.  
  
"At the moment," Felipe murmured, voice cracking. "I don't want to see you ever again."  
  
The air stilled, and after several agonising moments, Fernando moved away. Felipe's eyes opened to watch him head for the door. He paused just before leaving, picking up his cap from where it had been discarded, and, twisting it a little in his hands, looked over to Felipe. He looked heartbroken. "I don't want to cause you any more pain."  
  
Felipe actually snuffed a laugh, though it made his throat ache even more.  
  
"I don't know if that's possible."  
  
Fernando's shoulders sank suddenly as though he'd sobbed, just once, before turning and reaching for the door. Felipe watched him go.  
  
He wasn't really sure how long he ended up standing there for. It hadn't stopped raining since he'd gotten there, and now the sound of it coming down in sheets, rolling white noise against the windows, pervaded his mind and made it difficult to think.  
  
Finally he sniffed and swayed slightly, gaze breaking away from the closed door to look over to his cellphone on the bedside table. He didn't know who to call at first, then ended up spending five or so minutes explaining to his father in weary tones what would be splashed over the various sports sections tomorrow morning. Briefly they discussed options, and his father reminded him that while there didn't really seem to be a silver lining to this cloud exactly, clouds always pass. There would be a glimmer of light on the horizon soon. After a day like today, that reminder was something Felipe sorely needed.  
  
Once he'd clicked the phone shut his gaze swung over to his bag, the side pocket still open from Fernando's little raid. _Should put a shirt on,_ a voice told him, and he walked over to the bag and did so, dazedly. As he pulled the plain grey polo neck down over his chest, he noticed that the light in the bathroom had been left on. _Should turn it off,_ that voice came again, and he walked to the bathroom to do just that. On reaching the door, however, his eyes fell upon his discarded, crumpled Ferrari shirt by the toilet bowl. _Should throw that away,_ said the voice. This time he did not obey.  
  
His hand hovered over the lightswitch for a few seconds before he left it on and entered the bathroom, walking over to the stained garment and picking it up.  
  
 _Should throw that away._  
  
Felipe sank down on the spot, thudding down into a hunched seated position and staring at the _Cavallino Rampante_ , before twisting the shirt around his hands and heaving a deep sigh. Now the tears came, but that was all; no body wrenching sobs as before, just tears rolling down his cheeks and _thp_ ing to the tiled floor. A muted release because he had nothing more to give.


	8. Our Hopes And Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

_January 19th, 2009._  
  
Felipe tugged at the slightly longer than usual curls of hair poking out from under his baseball cap as he headed down the corridor. He wondered briefly if he should have had a trim before today, and just as quickly the thought was spirited out of his head as a voice reached his ears.  
  
"You're nervous?"  
  
Felipe looked to his side and blinked. "Why do you say that?"  
  
Nick shrugged a shoulder, flicking the hair out of his eyes as he donned his baseball cap. "You used to do that, play with your hair. But you also used to lisp a little bit and your English was bad," he smiled. "Things change."  
  
Felipe snuffed a laugh, the knot in his stomach loosening. After having a year out of the loop and starting this season entirely afresh, to be teamed with the man he'd partnered during his very first season as a racing driver in Formula One was something he was very grateful for. That, coupled with the sight of the word ‘Petronas' emblazoned across his middle, made it feel like a bit of a homecoming. "Thank you!"  
  
They were hurried along towards the sound of booming, grandiose music, ushered around a corner and confronted by the sight of a large circular stage, veiled by a white curtain that seemed to disappear into the ceiling. A video was playing, projected against the other side of the curtain and throwing dancing colours across the otherwise darkened stage. In the centre of all this, on its own raised circular platform and about to be unveiled to the awaiting guests and media, was the BMW Sauber F1.09.  
  
Felipe's stomach fluttered a little as he was handed his helmet and made his way out onto the stage, moving to stand to the right of the car. He cast his eyes over it, and though the flickering light from the projection made it difficult to really see, it was still fairly obvious that the new aero rules made it a far sleeker looking beast than in previous years. Tucking his helmet under his arm, Felipe quietly acknowledged that he himself was not the same animal as before, either.  
  
The projection suddenly died and plunging the stage into momentary darkness. Just as Felipe turned his head back to the fore, blinding white spotlights burst into life behind him, Nick and the car, throwing their silhouettes against that crisp white curtain. Felipe had time for one more steeling intake of breath as dry ice billowed around his legs and the curtain began to rise.  
  
Momentarily his smile faded as a familiar image flickered into his mind's eye. Unkempt brown curls and shattered caramel eyes, palpable heartbreak in amongst the swoop of multiple emotions, utter vulnerability and that unmistakeable fucking Spanish accent.  
  
 _Maybe we..._  
  
Felipe smiled again for the waiting throng, the curtain now fully raised and strobe lighting flickering around the presented trio, thoughts now occupied with the desperate gaze of Fernando Alonso.  
  
He wanted to see it again.  
  
  
 _End._


End file.
